


Every New Beginning Comes From Some Other Beginning's End

by thesaddestboner



Series: Lose Your Soul [2]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Detroit Tigers, Gen, Implied Relationships, M/M, Non-Famous Family Members As Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-11
Updated: 2005-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:05:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>After all the grins and good feelings of 2004, 2005 is an utter disappointment.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every New Beginning Comes From Some Other Beginning's End

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a friend for a drabble meme request. As you can see, I lost a handle on the "drabble" part of the request.
> 
> In the original fic, I have Munson going to the Yankees based on an unfounded rumor on one of the Yankee fan boards. Something about Munson being a stop-gap at third while A-Rod moved back to short and Jeter moved out to center to relieve Bernie Williams of his duties. Well. I'm disregarding all that now, because I wrote this before Munson signed on with the Twins, and then found his way to the Devil Rays. 
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

_(out the blue i get a phone call)_

After all the grins and good feelings of 2004, 2005 is an utter disappointment. From the eyes of the fans, the team and management, 2005 is the kind of season you'd sweep under a rug like a dirty little secret. The kind of season you want to pretend never happened. 2003, yeah, 2003 was fucking bad, but it wasn't as bad as 2005 was. Guys sniping at one another in the media, guys bitching about everything from the management to Tram to the clubhouse attendants. For as bad as you were in 2003, to your credit, you never turned on one another as this team did. 

You're happy to be getting away from it all when you do. You miss your wife and your son, and you would really like to escape with whatever scrap of sanity you have left. You're sure it's not much; your sanity has been continually washed out to sea like Louisiana since the day you pulled ye Olde English D down over your heart.

You haven't spoken to him since the end of the season, a two-second phone call to congratulate him on being called up by the fucking Devil Rays. 

It went something like this:

_"Yo, Munce. Congrats. Heard ya got called up?"_

_"Yeah. I'm back."_

_"Yeah, I'm happy for you."_

_Awkward pause. "Thanks Brandon -- I gotta go."_

_Dial tone._

No, talking to him would not be a good idea. You're sure of that now as you were sure you'd be the anchor of the Detroit Tigers' infield (23 errors though, man, not good, not good at all).

So, when you get a phone call at yours and Shani's off-season place in Lakeland, you're more than a little surprised.

"Hi Brandon!" You can practically hear him smiling over the line. "How's it going?"

Warily, you eye the receiver, some sort of plastic Judas, clearly. "Uh. Heya, Munce. 'Sup?"

"Nothing much. Just relaxing. Yourself?" he asks.

"I'm doing alright. Why are you calling?"

"I'm in Lakeland," he says, "and Shanda wanted to meet up with Shani. She wants Walt and Tyler to hang out while she and Shani gossip about us behind our backs."

You crease your brow and jut out your bottom lip. "Uh. Okay? I guess."

"Dude, you know how women are," he says. "They've had this planned since the end of the season." Munce laughs, and it's been a long, long time since you heard that sound coming from his mouth.

"Okay, Munce," you say, "that's fine with me. Can't wait to catch up."

"Awesome, dude. See ya." 

He hangs up and you stare down at the receiver like it's come to life in your hand.

*

_(we're gonna make up for lost time)_

Shani is ridiculously excited at catching up with Shanda, and even more excited to see Solen in his Halloween costume; Shanda is bringing the family Camcorder along, as well, with detailed exploits of Walt's first Halloween (you make a mental note to yourself to rag on Munce for calling his poor kid Walt). You make up a plate of hamburger patties and put extra beers in the fridge for you and Munce, once the women go off on their own.

He looks good, stronger than when he left. He's tan and muscular, maybe even a little skinny, and he has lines at the corners of his eyes. He's let his hair grow a little wild and unkempt, and you can't help but reach out and scrub your hand through the mess of curls.

"Dude, you need a haircut. Like, last week," you tease, wrapping your knuckles in his hair. He reaches up and pries your fingers away, disentangling himself from you.

"Jeeze Brandon, gotta go for the hair, huh? Can't even offer me a beer first?" He taps his wedding ring against the back of your hand, cool and hard, before dropping his arm to his side. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and kicks at the hardwood floor. 

There's a panoramic window that faces the lake, and when the sun dips below the horizon, the entire house is bathed in gold light. Munson's in front of the window, gold-dipped and golden, and something pulls apart in your chest.

You look toward the kitchen, and take a deep breath. "Want a beer? I got Coronas, Miller, Bud . . ."

"Miller's fine," he says, and you almost jump out of your skin, because his breath is on the back of your neck. You feel his hand rest on your shoulder, fitting neatly into the valley where your neck meets your shoulder, like it's been there countless times before (which it has) and he squeezes. "You okay, Brandon?"

"What do you think?" You don't mean to sound accusing. You've pretty much convinced yourself that letting him walk out on you was the right thing to do and you won't pause long enough to even let yourself think otherwise.

"I . . . I think you're still angry with me," he says, removing his hand, and you miss it. You miss him. It. Not him. It.

"I'm not angry, Eric. I don't blame you." You turn around and you're chest to chest, and you want so badly to touch him, to trip your fingertips down his cheek, or to push him away, punch him, pull his hair, something. But you can't do anything, you're paralyzed, just like you were when you let him leave.

Something flashes across his eyes. "Damn it, Brandon, I _want_ you to be angry with me. I want you to hit me and curse at me, and, like, _whatever_ for what I did to you. Just show _something_ so that I'll know whether or not walking out on us was the right thing to do."

"Eric, that isn't me. You _know_ that." You feel his heartbeat against your chest, erratic, hummingbird-fast. Or maybe that's your own. You're not sure anymore. You can't tell his heartbeat apart from your own, bad sign, Brandon, really bad sign.

He wraps his fingers around your wrist. "Fuck, Brandon, you pushing me away is a hell of a lot better than you just letting me leave." He moves your hand to his face, curling your fingers against your palm into a fist and letting your knuckles rest against the round of his cheekbone. "Hit me."

"I'm not going to fucking hit you." You try to pull away, to uncurl your fingers, but he holds on.

"Then tell me you hate me. Tell me to rot in hell. Something. Just _do_ something," he says, his eyes shut tight, and you don't like not being able to see his eyes. You could always read him better than anyone else, and now you can't.

"If you make me hurt you, we're going to hate each other forever," you whisper, pulling away from him. 

Eric opens his eyes. "Well, then, I guess we've already lost."

And in that instant, you know what you have to do. 

*

_(every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end)_

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


End file.
